Tinfoil Heart

by Daisy Prescott

  “Ah, here it is. Filed under natural phenomenon,” he says, happily. “Not quite the same, but close enough.”

  Staring at the picture he holds in front of me, I read the caption, “Sinkhole appears above a brine well on Carlsbad property owned by SFT, Inc, a local land holding company.”

  “Seems their land is prone to salt caverns and sinkholes.” He closes the binder and replaces it on the shelf.

  I make a mental note to research salt caverns on my own time.

  “Our mission isn’t focused on only what’s out there in space. Would be pretty foolish to assume no one has visited this planet. Or colonized it.”

  We’ve had this conversation before and I’m still not buying his version. “Are you saying the aliens don’t just visit?”

  “The better question is why not? Seems a decent place.”

  “Wouldn’t we know if there were little green men roaming around all the time? I highly doubt that our atmosphere would be compatible to Martians or invaders from Pluto.”

  “Open your mind, Lucy. Life takes many forms. Look at the biodiversity on Earth.”

  “Are you saying some of the living beings here aren’t from here?” Why do I keep asking?

  “Have you ever seen a giant squid?” He laughs. “What about lemurs with their big glowing eyes? Kind of look like the classic alien faces. Ever notice that coincidence?”

  “Right. Sweet lemurs are aliens from another planet.” Even though a spaceship piloted by lemurs is an adorable visual, I’ve had enough crazy for today. “On that thought, I’m going to call it a day.” I pack up my work and leave it neatly stacked so I know where to start when I return.

  “I hope I didn’t scare you away,” he says, sounding contrite. “If we can’t laugh at the absurdity of this life, we’ll never make it out of here alive.”

  “No one makes it out alive.”

  “You can’t say that. Maybe we shed these floppy human forms when we elevate to the next level. Or return to our mother planets.”

  “Now you’re sounding like a Scientologist.”

  He stares at me.

  “Stop staring. It’s a cult. You need to cut back on your caffeine consumption, Zed.” He follows me out of the room after I shut off the scanner and mark today’s date on the box.

  “Why is being dead and lifeless in the ground more realistic than our spirits returning to where we came from? Isn’t that the same idea of Heaven? We ascend into the clouds, into the sky and beyond. Where do the all the gods live?” He points at the ceiling. “Up there.”

  This conversation has swung a wide left turn into metaphysical territory. While I am curious about Zed’s theory, I also have to pee. The debate between Heaven and home planets is going to have to wait until another afternoon.

  “You can share your thoughts on the afterlife next time. I’ll be back again on Tuesday. As for the giant squid, if they stay deep in the ocean, I can pretend they don’t exist. Aliens or not.”

  He sits down in his chair so hard it spins. Chuckling, he says, “This is why most people stick to the idea of little green men with big eyes. Easier to go about our lives if we assume the other is so outrageously strange, we can dismiss the possibility. Takes bravery to question everything.”

  “Even sinkholes,” I reply.

  “Everything.” He pulls his chair closer to his desk. “Now go have fun this weekend.”

  “Right. Like I won’t be having nightmares about giant squid.”

  Outside, I shut the door behind me and make sure it clicks closed. The alley is empty as usual but I hurry to the street and the comfort of traffic. I feel like I’m being watched.

  “Bye, Lucy.” Zed’s disembodied voice carries through the intercom.

  I wave at the camera.

  Once I’m on the sidewalk and surrounded by oblivious tourists, I shake off the creepy feeling leftover from my conversation with Zed. I think his paranoia is contagious. I’m struck by how he narrowed in on the symbol I copied. Like he knew I’d drawn it on my skin. Next time I’m there, I’ll have to check for more cameras.

  I need to be around normal people, or at least people who don’t talk about conspiracy theories and aliens.

  It’s Friday and I think I know the perfect place to forget the weirdness of this afternoon.

  ROSWELL ISN’T A big place. Mostly one story buildings and vintage storefronts dominate Main Street, giving the town a feeling of being trapped in its prime last century. North of town is newer, with chain restaurants and hotels close to the military school. Suburbs trickle out to meet the desert in the west and south.

  Warehouses, empty lots surrounded by chainlink fences, and a few silos hug the railroad tracks on the east side of downtown. It’s not a place I’ve hung out before. Or even driven through. It’s not exactly a tourist friendly area.

  Housed in a red brick warehouse building not far from the tracks, Cowboy Pete’s doesn’t look like a western bar from the outside. A large, faded mural decorates the side facing the parking lot. With the sun behind the building, it’s difficult to make out the peeling lettering, but a smiling blond cowboy tipping his hat gives me a clue to the origins of the bar’s name.

  Inside, the decor is surprisingly modern, with lots of exposed brick, old wood beams and metalwork. Enormous windows face into the sun, casting half of the space in a warm glow and the rest in deep shadow.

  Not a single alien in sight. No campy spaceships either. This is exactly what I need.

  Most of the tables and booths are filled, but I spot a seat at the bar. I’m so excited to find a place, I don’t take the time to study the other patrons.

  Scanning the drink and snack menu in front of me, I bounce a little with happiness. I might even drool over the food options when I read the descriptions of their barbecue.

  After deciding what I want, I catch the bartender’s attention. He’s around my age, with full sleeves of tattoos on both arms and a septum piercing. Okay, so maybe he’s not normal in the eyes of most, but I’ve found my people.

  He gives me a friendly smile. “How’s it goin’? Know what you want?”

  “I want everything, but I’ll start with the brisket sliders and an order of the fried pickles.”

  “Excellent choices. Anything to drink?” His smile feels genuine and friendly.

  “Whatever beer you recommend,” I tell him, letting myself return his smile.

  “Are you a fan of hops?” Picking up a pint glass, he pauses for my answer.

  “I’m feeling very hoppy today.” I smirk at my own pun. Because honestly, puns are really for the one who makes them and no one else.

  “New Star IPA coming up.” He pulls a handle and fills my glass with a golden ale. “Haven’t seen you here before? Passing through?”

  “In the long term, yes, but I’ve been living south of here for a few months. I had no idea this place existed until Shari told me.”

  “Dark hair and a smile that could make a troll happy?” he asks, setting my pint down on a round coaster bearing the same cowboy image as the mural outside.

  “That’s her.”

  “She should get a commission for promoting us.”

  After taking a sip of the IPA, I moan with pleasure. “If your food is as good as this beer, you shouldn’t have to worry about attracting customers. Plus, the place is packed for a Friday afternoon.”

  “We do have some loyal regulars. Glad you enjoy the beer. Let me put your order in so you don’t have to wait forever.” He knocks his fist on the wood bar in front of me before walking to the other end.

  Why don’t I work in a place like this? I bet the tips are better and the people are definitely cooler. Thinking this, I feel guilty for ditching Tony and Wanda. They were there for me when I knew no one, had no money and no place to live. I owe them some loyalty.

  On the other hand, this girl has bills to pay.

  Happily sipping my drink, I twist on my stool to check out the crowd.

  When I spot a familiar messy head
of hair, I miss my mouth and spill beer on my white T-shirt.

  Dabbing at it, I make sure I’m not starring in a one woman wet T-shirt contest. There’s only a large wet spot over my left boob and it doesn’t show my bra.

  Boone’s here at Cowboy Pete’s.

  Of course I know he exists outside of the diner. He must have some place he calls home and I’m guessing a job in the oil industry. Yet somehow I’ve never thought of him having a social life with friends. Apparently he’s the kind of guy who’s a regular at the coolest place in town where everyone knows him. And has a beautiful girlfriend.

  He’s all smiles and hellos until he catches me sitting at the bar. For a moment he stares at me, then the warmth leaves his eyes and his brows knit together. Seeing me in his space isn’t a happy little coincidence. Not by his expression.

  Straightening my back, I brace for him to do one of two things: either he’ll ignore me completely or acknowledge my existence but pretend he doesn’t know me.

  Not that he does know me. I’m his breakfast waitress. We’re not exactly friends or work colleagues even.

  “Hi,” Shari greets me warmly with an open half hug. “I’m so happy to see you again. Boone, this is Lucy. I told you about her.”

  “What is she doing here?” Boone directs his question at Shari. He glances at my chest, but doesn’t meet my eyes. Feeling awkward about the beer stain, I pull at my shirt.

  “Why are you being a weirdo? Ask Lucy yourself.” Pointing at me, she continues, “She can hear and speak perfectly fine. Although with what a jerk you’re being, she’s probably better off ignoring you.”

  He scratches behind his ear and looks across the room. I don’t know if he’s waiting for one of us to explain my shocking appearance at a local bar, or if he’s counting to ten so he can act like he doesn’t hate me.

  Shari jabs him in the shoulder with her index finger. “And for the record, I invited her.”

  “How do you know Sharyl?” he asks, finally looking at me and not snarling out the words.

  “Oh no. He’s extra cranky if he’s using my full name.” Shari, I mean Sharyl, rolls her eyes. “My friends call me Shari.”

  This is the woman George asked about at the diner. The one who made him grow out a mustache over a lost bet. Figures he’d be with someone as gorgeous. Do I admit my humiliating date and Shari’s rescue? Add lonely to my stalker moniker?

  “She came in the Burger Joint. We hit it off,” she explains for me. It’s all true.

  Boone stares at her and then switches his attention to me. The intensity of his focus makes me want to curl up like a little potato bug. I resist the urge to shrink myself and instead roll my shoulders back. He doesn’t own the place, so why does he care if I hang out here? It’s not the only bar in town.

  “Are you following me?” His eyes challenge mine. I can’t tell if he’s joking or serious.

  “You’re so full of yourself, Boone. Not every woman is obsessed with you. Some have brains and taste.” Shari laughs as she puts him in his place before I can answer for myself.

  Third option: he accuses me of being a stalker in front of his girlfriend. Wasn’t expecting that to be the winner.

  “Some people find me likable.” I jut out my chin like a bratty kid.

  For a quick second he narrows his eyes at me, opens his mouth as if to snark back, and then changes his mind. “You two have fun.”

  “We’re supposed to have dinner,” Shari says, halting his getaway with a hand to his bicep.

  “I’ve already ordered food, so don’t let me stop you.” I don’t want to ruin their plans, which by his attitude, I clearly have.

  “You don’t have to eat alone.” She touches my arm, making a connection between the three of us. The static in the air shocks me like a rubber-band snapped against my bare skin.

  I jerk back at the same time Boone does.

  “Jesus, Shari. Watch it with the static electricity.” He rubs his bicep.

  “Oops, sorry.” She shakes out her wrists. “Wasn’t thinking.”

  “Dry air,” I offer as explanation.

  Two pairs of eyes stare at me.

  “Static electricity is more common in dry air,” I explain the obvious reason for Shari shocking both of us.

  “Opposites attract,” she adds while Boone focuses on something behind me. “Right, Boone?”

  “Sure,” he mutters, clearly not paying attention to her question.

  A brunette with long braids interrupts us by touching Shari’s shoulder. No static shock this time. “Your table’s ready.”

  “Can you squeeze in a third?” Shari asks. “Our friend is going to join us.”

  Boone’s attention shifts to her. “Take the table. I’ll steal Lucy’s barstool.”

  The hostess waits for us to make up our minds.

  I’m saved from splitting up their date when the bartender drops off my food. “Please, keep your plans. I’m fine sitting here.”

  Shari blatantly elbows Boone.

  “Another time maybe,” he speaks to me, but his answer is obviously prompted by her elbow jammed in his ribs.

  “Sure, no pressure.” Resuming my seat, I give them a cheesy smile. “Honestly, I’m used to eating alone.”

  My statement hangs between us in an invisible speech bubble.

  An imaginary sad trombone plays in my head.

  Shari leans around me and calls over to the bartender. “Rafi, can you bring Lucy’s food over to our table instead? Thanks!”

  He nods and collects the plates. “Lead the way.”

  Silently I’m protesting “no, no, no,” but I slap a smile on my face and try to make the best of it.

  Yay, new friend. And Boone.

  Shari keeps the conversation going, mostly by talking about herself and local gossip. I don’t know if this is typical, but I’m grateful for her social skills. If it were up to Boone and me, we’d be playing the staring game in silence.

  They make a good couple.

  It’s strange to see him outside of the diner. Apparently, he feels the same. Or his silence in the mornings is his baseline. The strong, silent type. Who occasionally has odd facial hair.

  And still manages to be too handsome for his own good.

  And mine.

  Boone orders a Mexican Coke and drinks it from the bottle. Shari sips from a root beer.

  I’m the only one drinking alcohol.

  “So how long have you two been dating?” I ask, attempting to make conversation.

  He chokes on his Coke, turning red as he coughs.

  With a loud cackle, Shari slaps him on the back. “Ew, gross, no. He’s my older brother.”

  Just when I think the evening can’t get more awkward.

  Sister betting him to grow the fuzzy caterpillar makes complete sense.

  Boone mostly ignores me during the meal and makes an excuse to leave as soon as he finishes eating.

  “Sorry about my brother. He’s shy,” Shari apologizes as soon as he’s gone.

  “You don’t have to make excuses for him.”

  “I’m not. He’s always been quiet and a lot of people think he’s full of himself because he’s objectively good-looking. Don’t let the outside packaging fool you. He’s a good guy.” Her earnest need to share this with me doesn’t make up for his rudeness, but it does make me like her more.

  “I’ll have to take your word for it,” I offer. She doesn’t have to explain his actions to me.

  Is she saying I should date her brother? Or that he’d be interested in me? If anything, he seems to tolerate me for my newness.

  “If you don’t already have plans, we should meet up at the alien festival. It’s the week after next. Over the top cheesy, but there’s decent live music and yummy street food. Costumes are optional.”

  Her enthusiasm is contagious and I’m definitely curious to check out the festival.

  “I’d love to join you,” I happily agree, not even thinking about whether or not Boone will be there, too.r />
  Not at all.

  MONDAY AT THE diner is the same as every other morning. The oil workers come in, stare at their phones, order food, watch the commodities ticker, eat, and leave. A couple in matching Roswell alien hats sit at table five, Boone’s table. He hasn’t shown up yet. After his cold behavior at Pete’s on Friday, maybe he’s decided to get his breakfast somewhere else.

  I’m busing a table when a familiar dirty, gray truck pulls into a spot right in front of the windows.

  Boone strolls in, glances over at his regular table, then takes a seat at the counter like he did last week.

  No baseball cap or trucker hat today. He removes his sunglasses and sets them next to the placemat along with his phone. Screen down. And he doesn’t stare at the television. What’s even more unsettling is he’s staring at me, tracking me as I move through the tables.

  “Morning, Lucy,” he says when I stop in front of him to fill his cup.

  “Boone.” I’m not sure where we stand.

  “What are the specials?” He meets my eyes with a small curve of his lips.

  “It’s Monday. Blueberry pancakes, smothered breakfast burrito, or biscuits and gravy.” I set the coffee pot back on its warmer and pick up the pitcher of water. “Or you could just have pecan pancakes like you normally do.”

  “Trying to break out of my routine. Be open to new things.” His smile spreads as he fiddles with his knife.

  “Don’t go too crazy.” I don’t return his happy expression.

  “May I have the blueberry pancakes, please?” He glances down and then meets my eyes. “With a side of apology for my behavior on Friday.”

  “Sure.” I’m half turned to give his order to Tony when the second part of his sentence clicks in my brain. I set down the water pitcher next to his coffee. “Excuse me?”

  “Blueberry pancakes, please?” He taps his finger on the knife like he’s nervous.

  “Got that part.” Staring at Boone, I ignore a man making a check sign across the room.

  Focusing on his hands, he inhales and blows out his cheeks like apologizing isn’t something he does often. “I’m sorry for being rude to you at Pete’s. I thought Shari was meddling and let my annoyance at her spill over to you.”